


Victory Axis

by elegantideas



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:02:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9303284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantideas/pseuds/elegantideas
Summary: How could a man like John Smith, once so devoted to the American army, rise so quickly in the ranks of the Reich? Could his allegiances change so quickly? Or was he so devoted to his former country at all? Pre-TV show.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm new here :) Just a question, how does one use italics on here? Thanks and I hope you enjoy!

The sky that day in 1947 wasn’t screaming crimson artillery fire but rather the gray, pneumatic dust-ghost left behind in the wake of shelling. Captain John Smith knew the war was over; the vacant air stung his lips with the metallic twang of defeat.

But it didn’t have to be defeat.

Yes, he knew the war was over, but that was precisely why he disobeyed his senior officer’s command and ordered his men forward.

“But sir,” a fat-lipped young lieutenant cried. “You’ll get us captured! The Nazis are waiting to take prisoners of war.”

“I won’t get you captured, lieutenant,” Smith said calmly, eyes already set beyond the horizon line at the future. Beyond the buildings, the wrecked Maine lighthouses scattered on rocky beaches, he could already hear the glass-sharp sound of German. “I’ll get you freed. I’ll get us all freed.”

And thus the 53th Infantry Battalion of the United States army marched, muddy sweat oozing from every pore, straight into the arms of the enemy.

******************

“John, won’t you help change the baby?”

The boy sighed, leaving his game of marbles against himself in the sandy dirt of the backyard, and went to his mother on the patio. In the past year he found himself having to duck to avoid the low-hanging loose plank from the roof that was two splinters away from crushing any unfortunate soul beneath it. John’s father always said he’d fix it, but every night found himself too disheartened for anything but whiskey.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” his mother panted, swiping a veiny hand across her forehead before going into the kitchen to check on the toddlers who waddled on the floor there. On the counter beside the icebox she kept a photo of her true family--John, Edward, her, her husband--from John’s tenth birthday. Her face like an ironed satin curtain glowed through the photograph, eyes glimmering dark gems and hair of silken ringlets. So much had changed in just two years.

John held his breath as he changed the strange child, They were all strange children; they belonged no more in his house than a dolphin belonged in the African savannah. All day long they cried, from stubbing their toes or growing tired and hungry. For mere pennies a day, and sometimes less if their mothers couldn’t pay, John’s mother watched the squawling balls while mothers and fathers alike scrounged for any income. Of late John’s mother had been paid in more “Next time, I promise”s than actual coins, but she had more children to watch than ever. John wished she’d pay half as much attention to him and to Edward as she did to the strange children.

“We’re her own blood, her own children,” he told the baby, but it merely mouthed its own hand. 

“John?” His mother stuck her sagging face out the door. “Was that you talking?”

“Only to the baby, Mother,” he said. He showed his mother the child, freshly diapered and gurgling. “I’m finished. May I go talk with Edmund?”

Her expression softened. “Go ahead. I’ll call you down if I need more help.”

John raced up the stairs to the room he shared with his brother. Edmund reclined on his pillow, propped up against the wall. On his nightstand his radio, a gift on his thirteenth birthday way back in the years before the Depression set in, mumbled softly. Upon seeing John, Edmund shut it off with a shaky hand.

“Come to have pity on a feeble old man?” he asked, his signature easy smile making it almost possible to forget that there was anything wrong with him.

‘Don’t say that, Eddie,” John said. He looked at the bundle of blankets where Edmund's legs were, quivering gently. “How are your legs?”

“Still not cooperating, but I think they’re getting better. Mother says if I rest them for a few more days I should be good as new.”

John nodded, a little lump of fear poking at his throat.

“And besides,” Edmund said, “lounging around in bed all day isn’t half-bad. Gives me a lot of time to listen to the radio. Get this.” Edmund patted a space on his mattress for his brother to sit. John obliged. “I heard a news report talking about a new guy called Adolf Hitler becoming chancellor of Germany.”

“So?” John asked.

“Reporters don’t seem to like him very much. I don’t know. Any guy with a title like Chancellor seems fascinating to me. Say,” Edmund whispered suddenly, eyes stretching with the birth of idea. “You wouldn’t be up for a run to the library, would ya? I mean, of course, you doing the running. Not me.”

John shot off the bed, heart thumping in eagerness to be of service to his brother and to be out of the house, free of the sniveling strange-children. “Of course!”

Edmund beamed. “Great. Pick me up some books about this Hitler guy and his group. News says they’re called National Socialists.”. He pronounced the words slowly to make sure John caught them. “Whatever you can find. We’ll read ‘em together tonight.”

John nodded once more and then he was off, darting down the stairs, out the door, and down the street to the public library. Adolf Hitler. National Socialists. All the while the words formed a Gregorian chant in his head.

Adolf Hitler.

John heaved open the brass doors and nodded, short-of-breath, to the mousy librarian lady tucked away at her desk. The library smelled musty and of talcum powder.

National Socialists.

He walked briskly to the first place he thought he could find those words: the politics section. He scanned through a sea of endless brown spines. Adolf Hitler. He saw Machiavelli's The Prince alongside debates on the nature of the Italian states. National Socialists. Books on the French Revolution, and on Alexander Ypsilanti’s liberation of Greece. 

There. A small, chubby black book, Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler. John plucked it off the shelf. Beside it were two slim volumes contemplating the National Socialist movement in Europe. He took those as well, and plopped all three down on a table. He began to read.

The pages whirred past John’s eyes until his fingers grasped the back cover of the first slim book. Family. The possibility of a perfect race, of a perfect humanity. An end to suffering, economically, mentally, physically. He was on the second slim book when the librarian lady tapped his shoulder.

“We’re closing for the day,” she said. “But I can check those out for you.”

John thanked her and ran home, brain churning and humming with what he had read. His heart pulsed with a ravenous hunger. He would show the books to Edmund. He would submerse himself in their pages once more.


	2. Chapter 2

“Shoot, John, what is that now, three times?” From his bed where he crumpled sheets of notebook paper, Edmund regarded his younger brother with a smirk. “Don’t you think you should move on?”

“No, Eddie,” John said, lifting his wide eyes from the pages from On National Socialism’s Hold of Europe. “It’s interesting. You said so yourself.”

“Yeah,” Edmund said, tossing a crumpled paper-ball into the wastebasket in the corner of the bedroom. “But there are plenty of interesting books out there. Why should you confine yourself to the same one over and over again?”

John shook his head. His brother didn’t understand what a magnitude of power pulsed within the pages of this book. Never before had John been so entranced, so spellbound by black-and-white letters on a page. But they weren’t just any letters, they were those who wrote the future, who molded the present to fit their design. It was happening in Germany already. The Chancellor Adolf Hitler was enacting National Socialism law after law. The book would be alive before he knew it.

Edmund made to get up, but collapsed beside his bed as soon as his feet hit the floor. Instantly John was at his side, picking his brother up gently by the elbows.

“Are you hurt?” he asked softly.

Edmund shook his head, spittle dribbling down his chin. John wiped it with the sleeve of his own shirt. “You’re drooling, Eddie.”  
“Mama said I should be getting better if I rested.” Edmund shook his head, laughing bitterly. “I’ve been doing nothing but laying in bed, and look at me! I can’t even stand, Johnny.”

His blue eyes melted to watery mush. “I can’t even control my own body anymore.”

John helped his brother back into bed, muscles sagging with the weight of his brother’s despair. “That’s what’s in the book, Eddie. National Socialists, they prize science! They’ll find a cure, they’ll put an end to all suffering--”

“Aw, shut up, would you!”

Edmund twisted away from John so that he faced the wall. His shoulders bristled with the electricity of anger. John knew when he wasn’t wanted, and so biting his lips, already salty with tears, he clasped his book to his heart and ran downstairs, out the door, and as far as he could.  
************************  
Two Wehrmacht soldiers reclined at their post, knowing that it was only a matter of days before they would be relieved of their watch forevermore. The foamy explosions of mines in the bay below them was like a lullaby. The taller one’s eyes fluttered, heavy with sleep.

His companion roused him by the shoulder. “Alfred, What do you make of that?”

Approaching the two soldiers with a sodden and lethargic step was a small horde of Americans, laden with packs and coats and guns looted from bodies. A breath of wind could topple them all like dominoes, but steadily they marched ahead like slaves to the gallows.

Alfred raised his gun, but his companion pushed it back down. “Don’t shoot. Their hands are up. Let’s see what they want.”

The Wehrmacht soldiers waited as the Americans drew closer and closer. At last they came before the Germans, a few falling to their knees in the mud. Alfred prodded their captain, a man with a sharp face mangled with cuts, with the tip of his rifle.

“Was ist los?” Alfred asked him. “Why have you come this way?”

To Alfred’s surprise, the captain replied in strangled but intelligible German. “Ich heisse Smith, Captain of the United States Army. I wish to surrender to you.”

“Are these your orders, Smith?”

“Precisely the opposite.”

Smiling, Alfred dropped his gun and stuck a cigarette between his rotted teeth. He nodded to the captain and his men. “Come with me.”


End file.
